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Crack House Stories and Dangerous Fuckers: A Guest Post by my Favo(u)rite Lover

I feel like I have less and less than a little introduction most days. Zoe calls me her favourite which she spells “favorite”. She tells me I would save bandwidth and data expenses and time if I left out the little letters which Europeans still use. I remind her that the metric system is better. 

We go way back, both of us writers, her the traveler (spellt in American) and I am the obscure European intellectual she found years ago. We thrill each other in so many ways. Write about each other. We share spaces and projects. We are amazed how many things in common we have. That woman & that man. 

I hardly ever leave my city which she agrees is one of if not the most beautiful on Earth. She travels the world witnessing the human condition, its breadth, profundity, communality, beauty and quirky mundanity. I just sit in one city and wait for people to come to me & they do. And occasionally crack house stories.

Zoe comes like a comet but one of the closer ones on an eclipse every year and delights all my senses with her stories and insights. Her dares and constant pushing of the envelope thrills me. 

I am older than her. 

Arguably although I do believe she would agree with this pretentious statement: I am not only older than she but also have gone through more extreme experiences. And more crack house stories. We all learn. Or at least we should. 

So anyway, last night for the first time in my life I did a runner from a restaurant. I suggested it to Zoe after crap overpriced food as a joke. She says “yup”, up she got, I thought “oh new experience”, I looked over my shoulder all the way, she giggled at my naivety.  

She invited me to a super intense gig the other night. Her favourite (spellt with “ou”) big beat group of renown. I thought it would be too intense so did not go. This morning she invited me to a “Starbucks” an establishment I have never before visited. Apparently it is easy to go in to these places with a confident attitude, sit yourself down at a table of half drunk cups and smoothies, log into Wifi through a social media application on your phone and you do not even have to give your real name to enjoy the air conditioning. Zoe is a learning experience.

Crack House Stories

This afternoon I thought I would visit a friend and offer him my best regards on his birthday. It has been a while since I had the opportunity to sit down with him and others and sing the usual crap songs and chew the gristle of years of common experience. 

Because he has spent the last few years banged up in a high security prison. 

I have never been in a high security prison but I am pretty sure it leaves people yearning for outside life eager to make the most of it. He is much younger than me. I am older than most. He has seen it all. I have known more. 

Pablo has a girlfriend who is much younger than he, and if I treat him like an errant little “bro” then somewhere in my gut I imagine (if I be as good a man as one who never went to high security prison) that she might be out of her depth without ever testing her shallows. He sells drugs and she takes as much of them as she can. 

He has taken more drugs than she weighs. I do not seek to judge. These be crack house stories.

I buzz the intercom and say “hi bro happy birthday!” and he recognizes my voice and seems delighted and excited and surprised. “Wow bro, come on up!”. 

There is no elevator. 

I climb the stairs and find myself at the first security door. He is half naked, wearing a fresh pair of his favorite (spellt with no “u”) designer label underpants. I do not wear underwear and always wonder at the guys, men, bros I know and have known who spend so much money on trapping their balls under their body and displaying their cock in such a fetid garment. 

He hands me the keys. “Close the doors, will you?”. It takes me a few about a minute of fumbling and squinting at the assortment of keys to work out which closes the first external security door, the original door with three locks and the inner cage door in the hallway. I throw him the keys. His bro on one of the two sofas yelps with surprise. 

“Wow bro! Haven’t seen you in years, how are you bro! Are you here for the party?”

The girl on the sofa remembers my name and uses it, she slurs “haven’t seen you in a while, are you here for the party”. I remain expressionless because I do not think two drugged guests, one bro and one girl make a party. Mad hatter me. She uses my expressionless pause to joke “we are not really having a party”. 

I take my place on the sofa. I do small talk, trivial chat with the bro who doesn’t sell drugs but cares enough about the bro who does and has spent years in high security prison to turn up to his birthday gig. Crack house stories. None of us are planning on doing a runner from this. We all care.

Pablo chops up lines on a plate. He snorts two directly off the plate. It is his special move and always disturbs the other lines.

He then immediately loads a crack pipe with freebase cocaine. He complains about not being conscious enough to take delivery of bricks. His face and movements tell me he has not really been conscious of anything for days. 

Do I need to write, is it important to note for the reader that I turn down the lines and the pipe? I have had a long 24 hour day of firsts and important shit. I have done so much in my long life to have gone through extreme experiences and I have learnt as well as now I can teach.

The small chat is a tell, a giveaway. I get the foot gently tapping me under the coffee table. Three Two One. It begins. 

Pablo birthday boy, man of worth who should know better is about to go off on one and the young girl closer to twenty than twenty five is about to get verbal abuse. No other way of describing it. 

Her eyes seek us out on the other sofa as he begins to complain about her behaviour (with a u) and how she has deleted the last two days of her phone records. I turn off my phone and leave it on the ground under the table. Have seen these crack house stories before and know that it is the best way to spoil a birthday and mess up the head of guests, be they male or female, older or younger than the shitfaced drug dealer who has recently come out of high security prison. 

I do not take the bait. Stay silent. 

I wait a bit less than one minute before commenting and distracting. One minute is a long time for a crack head. 

“I have never seen your balcony” say I. “Wow it is hot. I need to get that shutter up and get fresh air”. Pablo is chastened by my very subtle rebuke and jumps to raise the shutter. We go out to the balcony. The sun is hot and intense for my eyes and probably worse for his. He immediately starts justifying his verbal abuse. 

“She is stealing my drugs and fucked someone else on the sofa whilst I was sleeping, she doesn’t know who she fucks and never remembers.”

“Pablo” I reply “I am in your home behind three security doors and until now have not had access to your balcony with its fine views”. He laughs. He knows me. 

“What is your exit strategy he smiles.” (we go way back). I tell him that I would jump the 60 degree angle of 2 meters down to the adjacent balcony with the empty beer cans and food on the table. “I thought you would jump down below and then take the gas pipe down to street” he bursts out laughing. 

“That would bring more attention to me and delay my exit” I smile because like we go way back. “The balcony jump will bring me to a tourist apartment, the tourists are absent, the door to the staircase shall be unlocked or I have food for a while and can leave in three ways if shit hits your fan”. He is in giggles and joy. Birthday boy is finally putting positive emotion into his drug high. It never lasts long. 

“She is talking to him”. He looks over his shoulder at the young woman who like me is locked behind three doors but unlike me has no exit strategy.

“Look at what is front of you” I say, which is really kind of a chilled self help line repeated on youtube videos or pay for enrollment “get to know yourself” courses. I point out the couple making their bed two floors down on the opposite side of the street. The guy is in underwear, no visible designer label, kind of hard, red hair. The girl has blue hair, a lot of tattoos and is wearing mismatched bra and panties. They make their bed in a tourist apartment and hold each other on the balcony clinched in a kiss. 

My bro puts his arms around me and hugs me with all the sincerity I would expect from a friend who is my bro even if he is being an utter asshole. 

“Wow. what you think is going to happen?” 

“I think it is obvious that they are cleaning up their space before enjoying a memorable loving fuck Pablo” I say. It is just what I see. The girl with the blue hair disappears from view and returns with a face mask, one of those throwaway one use cosmetic things that do wonders for rejuvenation of skin which is not really old and also seem really scary out of the bathroom. She and the dyed hair tourists opposite are familiar lovers. He smiles at her as she begins to rub some kind of lotion into his red dyed head. His arm goes around her waist.

Pablo looks behind him. Tension. 

“Pablo bro, there is another option for me and everyone including her to leave which you didn’t see. We are hugging like bros and my fingers are at three of the pressure points on your neck and your body although younger, fitter, more ripped and just out of high security prison, is on drugs, desensitized (with a “z”) and right now with minimal pressure I can render you bro quite unconscious and incapable of response for just as much time as it takes me to take your keys and walk myself and your birthday party out your three security doors unless you make an effort to be a nice person.”

Silence is a rare and thus to be savoured moment between friends who each know they are dangerous fuckers.

To be Continued…


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